Steppenwolf
by Skyraptor66
Summary: An Albel-centric fic inspired by the Herman Hesse novel of the same name. No prior knowledge needed. Chaste and un-caught AlNel.
1. 4 Plus 20

Summary: A sympathetic study of a monstrosity. Albel-centric. AlNel

Author's Note (READ!): Hello all you happy people. I'm relatively new to Star Ocean 3 and the Albel/Nel pairing, so feel free to nitpick at my lack of knowledge, though I was nerdy enough sift through of the game's dictionary for two hours taking notes. This fic was inspired by...well, _Steppenwolf_ by Herman Hesse, and the quotes from the original novel at the beginning of the chapters play just as vital a role as the bare narrative. I suggest you read them. (Pretty please?) Writers here seem to enjoy picking apart and playing with Albel's complex caricature of a character, so I applied another caricature to help explain his character in a way that's hopefully unique as well as true. Nel gets less attention, but the same should apply to her—sans the caricature of a caricature of a character. Critique as you wish, but know that in the heart of every writer is a monstrous ego that wants to impale you on a stake with every criticism you make; rhyme intended.

Written for Sorceress Myst who, for the most part, had Albel's personality pinned and wriggling on the wall. I only wish she had gone further...

"_TREATISE ON THE STEPPENWOLF_

_There once was a man called the Steppenwolf. He went on two legs, wore clothes and was a human being, but nevertheless he was in reality a wolf of the Steppes. He had learned a good deal of all that people of good intelligence can, and was a fairly clever fellow. What he had not learned, however, was this: to find contentment in himself and his own life. The cause of this apparently was that at the bottom of his heart he knew all the time (or thought he knew) that he was in reality not a man, but a wolf of the Steppes."_

_--Herman Hesse, _Steppenwolf (pg. 40)

"_I am a sick man. I am a wicked man."_

–_Fyodor Dostoevsky, _Notes From Underground

Albel drew his sword from the wolf's blood-soaked body and watched it die.

The animal let out a weak snarl as it writhed upon the wet ground. Albel bared his teeth at it.

He couldn't smile even if he tried; the pleasure had left him as he knew it someday would. Life had given him other things to think about and unwittingly spoiled his fun. Rather than returning to the Black Brigade, he wandered the countryside like a vagrant, slaughtering thieves and wild animals to reawaken his blood lust, for what use is a man who does not love his work? The king did not mind—all was well in Airyglyph.

His travels led him to Aquaria, where the inhabitants still shrank in fear of him in spite of the truce that kept the peace between his country and theirs. He avoided towns more often and roamed the wilderness, choosing to face monsters over white, terrified maggot faces. He could not duck away from the bright skies in the streets, but the trees in the forests clotted the lucid blue light like the clouds of his home.

His home did not need him. That's why he was there. His use had begun to wane like his thirst for red death.

At the beginning of summer, during a spell of exceptionally hot weather, he reached the town of Arias while traveling south along the border. The tattered town had few supplies to offer him, and those that remembered his face among the many that attempted to burn their village to the ground were reluctant to give him any. The Crimson Blades stationed in the area gave the Arians an attitude that he despised, but they were what kept him from gutting every villager that spurned him.

Albel scowled fiercely down at a shop keep who refused him service. The shop keep scowled back.

"You heard me. I know who you are, and not even Apris Himself can convince me to give you one damn berry. Get out of here."

Albel growled, but held his sword arm steady. With a final glare, he turned heel and left.

Outside, the air clogged his throat like cotton. He paused just outside the door as a vivid image of metal claws sinking into the shop keep's throat drifted through his mind. He loved his monster more than anything; it gave him guiltless ecstatic rage in the face of his enemies, but it was never enough. He couldn't kill the weak, the defenseless--even scum as insolent as the Aquarians. _He_ was the weakling.

"Albel Nox?"

A female voice carried down the street. Albel noted the authority underlying its softness as he glanced up to see Clair Lasbard make her way towards him. Her expression appeared curious rather than wary, her silver braids clinging to her damp neck in the afternoon heat.

"Hmph. And who are you?" he asked, feigning ignorance to put her off her guard.

"Odd seeing you in these parts, Nox." she said. "What business does the Black Brigade have here?"

"None of your concern, scum."

"Is it? Even with the truce, a Glyphian captain in Arias doesn't give off the best of signals..."

"Fool. Do I look like I'm here to ravage your worthless town?" He fired his sincerity into her eyes with a glare.

"So you've come to visit Nel then?" Clair replied indifferently.

"The wench is here, eh? Not likely. I nearly gutted her twice without the least bit of remorse." His face split into a wry grin as Clair's gaze hardened. "She wouldn't want to see me anyway."

"She already has," said Clair, "And she asked me to be hospitable to you in spite of your... history with us."

"Hmph. Why didn't she come out herself?"

"Work. She's leaving for Peterny tomorrow."

Albel was silent. He recalled what it was like to fight the Zelpher fool in true combat. She was weaker than he had hoped, but she fought well. Perhaps he could taunt her until she snapped, renew the exhilaration that had left him. His mind emptied when he moved to kill a worthy opponent, and it was that emptiness that he killed for. When their lifeless body hit the ground, he was hardly aware, lost in the feel of his breath seething through his teeth. Those were the battles he lived for.

But could he kill Nel Zelpher? She had done nothing to him that he had not done to her, and it was all business; bloody business, but business nonetheless. His honor weakened him, made him merciful. The monster snarled and rattled it like a cage.

Albel looked at the girl in front of him and wondered why she wasn't dead. The Scourge was at his side, and his claw flexed for the strike.

_Weak. _It grated.

"You're welcome to stay in the mansion, as long as you don't cause trouble, that is." Clair said.

"Don't bother." Albel growled. "I'm leaving this godforsaken town as soon as I can."

"Very well then. I'll inform Nel."

"Bah, what does the scum care?" He said to her back as she turned away from him.

"She's convinced that she trusts you, though I'm still puzzling at why." Clair shot him a final look over her shoulder, heading up the cracked street. A short breeze passed through the town and cooled his matted hair. He felt a familiar hatred boil in his gut.

Now he stood over the wolf's corpse, contemplating the blood that dampened his boots. Peterny rose above the horizon, white and round with its stone walls; a giant maggot pregnant with smaller maggots crawling over the bones of the city as if it were worth something more, as if their lives mattered.

The grass was green and bounced against his step. What a Glyphain snow wolf was doing in Palmira plains he could not imagine. He had put the beast out of its misery, before the heat or a pack of Aquarians killed it in a humiliating way. The wolf was his to claim in death; any other fate for it would have been a perversion of natural rights.

Albel stepped away from the corpse, the faint scent of smoke from the city perceivable over the sweet odor of gore.

Closing note: Eh, it's short and I'm not entirely satisfied with it, but it works. Other than a raw outline I'm diving blindly into this one.


	2. Gloria

"_It might, for example, be possible that in his childhood he was a little wild and disobedient and disorderly, and that those who had brought him up had declared a war of extinction against the beast in him; and precisely this had given him the idea and the belief that he was in fact actually a beast with only a thin covering of the human."_

_--_Steppenwolf

"_Every woman adores a Fascist,_

_The boot in the face, the brute_

_Brute heart of a brute like you."_

_--Sylvia Plath, "Daddy"_

"Your father is dead, boy."

Woltar had shown him the charred corpse to prove it; a man reduced to smoking coal. The dragons found it a more than suitable punishment for his sinful pride. They left the young Albel alone as he collapsed from the pain in his arm. He awoke to find it gone, though he could still feel it burning with the dragons' flame. The pain never stopped.

"You were his only son," Count Woltar said. "He was a gruff man, that's certain, but he couldn't let you die. He loved you."

Albel felt hatred of a different kind then, and bitter contempt; though at whom he dared not acknowledge. He could blame his father for the monster that had grown within him, but a piece of him knew that the seed had been planted years ago with the birth of his pride.

The Crimson Scourge rattled against his side as he walked through the gates of Peterny. _It_ knew. It was his hate that gave it its power and sting.

The guard eyed him warily as he passed. Albel ignored him. All these Aquarians sticking their noses in his business...

He slipped into the open door of a pub, having caught a meddling look in the guard's eye. Musky tobacco smoke filled the air, mingled with the stench of fermented hops. It calmed him in spite of himself; he tended to judge places by their scent, and the pub carried its own atmosphere as pubs do. He could easily be anywhere in Gaitt with the pine walls, flickering lamplight, and foggy windows.

Albel sat down at a lone table in the corner, meditating on fetching himself some wine. The sign just outside the door read "An Fear Mire"--"The Mad Man". He glowered at it like a bad omen.

A man was seated at the table in front of him with a tankard in his scrawny hand, facing a group of chattering merchants across the pub. Albel could hear their conversation from his corner.

"You bastards and your pipe dreams!" one of the merchants declared. He seemed to be the most sober of the lot, black hair brushing his sun-burnt nose. "It never works, does it-- you get these ideas that things are gonna get better, that you're not just wasting your life. But nothing ever happens. Nothing ever gets better. But we need to believe that they will, and that's the rub lads. All of us misbegotten children of Irisa, but at least we have our pipe dreams..."

"'Shoulda been a philosopher," another merchant drawled, "Then maybe you'd be bending the ears of the scholars at Aquios instead of us."

"That's right, make a joke of it," the philosopher-merchant said, "I don't give a damn anymore. I resign myself to apathy. It's no use anyway."

Albel listened as the other merchants laughed.

"Buncha sorry fuckers aren't they?" said a voice in his ear. Albel turned his head to see that the man in front of him had taken a seat beside him.

"Who invited you, scum?" Albel snarled.

"Rich as hell, though..." the man continued. His unkempt red beard was dark about the mouth with drink.

"Did you not hear me, or do I have to remove your head from your skinny neck?"

The man looked closely at Albel, the green of his eyes visible even in the poor light.

"I suppose I should apologize, but I couldn't resist," he said. "You looked like you needed company."

"What the hell are you doing, Zelpher? And stop using that damned voice. You sound like the Marquis."

Nel's false beard bristled in annoyance.

"We'll discuss that later." she said, still with a harsh masculine tone. "Be glad they're too drunk for you to ruin this for me."

"I didn't have to do anything, fool. You look like a whelp in those clothes."

"I said we'll discuss that later. Here." She passed him the tankard. "It's good."

When she didn't speak to him again, he took a sip. It _was_ good.

"How have you been?" she said finally.

"Bah. Why are you concerned with my life? That maggot friend of yours talked to me in Arias. Do you think you're my mother?"

"What are you doing here, Albel? Does the king have no more duties for you to fulfill?"

"Shut up, wench."

Albel felt a sharp pain in his side. The blade of Nel's dagger grazed his skin.

"The grace of Apris defend you..." Nel muttered, fixing her eyes on the merchants.

Rage churned inside Albel. He reached for the scourge, but Nel shifted and pinned his arm against him.

He lifted his claw. "I'll kill you..."

"No you won't."

He growled, but did as she said. The merchants' banter had become indiscernible to him.

"The fool with the black hair has some sense," he said to Nel. "Is he the one you want?"

"I don't think so," she replied reluctantly. "I'm looking for ringleaders."

"The war's over, so now you're battling against your own people." Albel smirked. "Well met, fool."

"They're leaving." Nel whispered, "Stay put."

The two watched as the group of merchants stumbled out of the pub. Nel relaxed and released Albel's arm.

"There's been unrest among the wealthy merchants here," she explained as Albel drank from the tankard. "I sent one of my subordinates as requested, but they couldn't find anything. I took it as a sign for me to investigate it myself. Unfortunately, I haven't found anything either."

Albel grinned and sat back. "Maybe a fool like you should learn how to do her job. If the great spy of the Crimson Blades can't even crack down on a few lousy merchants, it makes me wonder who would have won our little war."

"You never change, Albel." They met each others' glare.

"So what _are_ you up to?" Nel continued. "You might as well answer me; if I have any reason to believe that you're here to harm my people..."

"I'm bored. How's that, wench?" Albel snapped. "There's nothing to kill. Even the Scourge is rattling louder than usual. And the men back home are all weaklings. Not that this pathetic scrap of a country is much better."

He sounded harsher than he meant. The burning sensation where his left arm used to be was paining him more than usual.

"Blood is all you ever want." Nel shook her head. "It's sad and disgusting watching you."

"You can't talk. What would you be without all of these rebels and little wars, eh? You'd be like me, wandering where no one wants you."

"Is it a good fight you're looking for? Because you're close to getting one."

"Struck a nerve, scum?"

Nel sighed.

"I'm heading back to Aquios to report my findings tomorrow. If you'd like, and if you can behave yourself, you may accompany me. If you're looking for...entertainment..." She looked him in the eye. "Then we have something that might interest you."

"Invite me to Aquios? Heh, good one woman. Your city reeks of incense and lifeless gods. I wouldn't last a day."

"I'm suggesting it because we have a lycanthrope living in the barracks."

Albel leaned forward. "You caught one? How foolish are you Aquarians?"

"He came to us. He says he wants to be cured and thinks that only the grace of Apris can save him. Obviously, he wasn't raised among his own kind, and thinks his abilities are a curse."

"Fool." Albel muttered as he swallowed more of his drink.

"There does seem to be more to him, though. He has fits...Two of our soldiers are in critical condition because of it."

"I get it, wench. You want me to slice his hairy head off for you because you're already obligated to him."

"I never said that, Albel. I just thought it might interest you as most kinds of violence do."

"And what would I do with him? Take him for walks?"

"You don't have to see him, Nox, it was only a suggestion. If anything, you could spar with our soldiers."

"Why do you want me to go so badly, Zelpher?"

Nel looked at him closely for a moment.

"Frankly, I don't like the idea of you roaming our lands like a vagrant. I want you where I can see you so I don't find myself called in to investigate several deaths by your hand. One or two of our ranks may be no match for you, but hundreds are more than enough if you get too cocky."

Albel shot her a toothy sneer.

"Is that what you think of me? I'm touched. The scum said you trusted me."

"To an extent. I haven't kicked you out of the country yet, have I?"

"Hmph. Alright, I'll go. But only if you damned Aquarians get off my back. I'll even see your new pet, too."

"Good. I'll meet you at the north gate tomorrow."

Nel stood up, scratching irritably at her beard. She tipped the brim of her shabby brown cap at him before gliding out the door.

Albel remained in his seat and sucked the last of the drink through his teeth. The urge to spring the Scourge from its scabbard and take out the whole pub grew to ferocious proportions. Goddamn those Aquarians. Goddamn them like the nosy, treacherous fools they are. Only they could keep a beast among them with the pretense of goodwill and salvation.

His missing arm burned inside the metal. His claw was alive with flame.

He tossed the empty tankard aside and stood up, meeting the bartender's wary look with a growl as he padded away. Outside, orange light from the falling sun glanced off the chalk white bricks and cobblestones. Albel glanced at an inn nearby, but thought better of it. Nobody would take him in. He wondered vaguely where Nel was staying the night.

He wandered for sometime through the streets. Children knocked a ball around with sticks in the square and ignored him. An unclaimed basket of flowers sat on the steps. The end of his scabbard caught the handle as he walked by and the blossoms tumbled onto the stones like small, pale bodies. He passed a balcony where the silhouette of a man played a guitar gently. Albel paused at the music, staring into the darkening alley as he lingered there. The player was an amateur; his notes were flawed and he would hesitate between chords as if adjusting his hands to the strings, but Albel felt no spark of annoyance as he listened.

Albel glanced about for guards, or anyone else who might harass him, and then slumped down against the wall beneath the balcony. An animal warmth in his chest numbed the cold sting of the street. By the time the music ended, he had long since fallen asleep.

As usual, he dreamed of fire.

Closing Note: Bah, my chapters are still too damn short. It's a sodding curse, I tell you. Just thought I'd make Albel's life worse by giving him phantom limb syndrome. It took a bit of close reading, but the dictionary and official sources do say he _lost_ his left arm completely. Considering the burn damage those dragons probably did to it, it'd be potentially fatal (because of infection) and bloody useless to keep anyway.


	3. Black Hole Sun

It's official: Anarchy Sky is the Tom Robbins of Alnel. Her stuff is old, granted, but highly entertaining. (She makes references to _Se7en _and _Once Upon a Time in America_ in the same chapter, which automatically equals awesome in my book.) The dramatic stuff isn't bad either, actually. I recommend her to all new or nostalgic Nelbel shippers, so long as they do not like Sophia.

It's also official: Adray is now the Bear-Jew. Do not dispute this.

"_In him the man and the wolf did not go the same way together, but were in continual and deadly enmity. One existed simply and solely to harm the other, and when there are two in one blood and in one soul who are at deadly enmity, then life fares ill. Well, to each his lot, and none is light."_

_--_Steppenwolf

"_I believe a man lost in the mazes of his own mind may imagine that he's anything."_

_--Doctor Lloyd from _The Wolfman (1941)

A jab to his side roused Albel from his sleep. The dark shape of a man bent over him against the morning light, bright eyes peering through cracked spectacles.

"Hey, you...sir...Wake up now. You've been making a racket all night and now it's time to get yourself outta here..."

"Shut up, maggot." Albel pushed him aside as he stood up. At his full height, his shadow engulfed the man.

"I'm just asking you politely. I could call the guards over here if you want to be that way."

Albel ignored him and stalked off. His back hurt from sleeping on the cobblestones, and he wasn't about to listen to some scum complain about his nightmares.

He made his way to the north gate where Nel was waiting in her usual clothes, beard-free. She looked up at him through her red bangs.

"That took you a while. Where did you stay the night?"

"None of your business."

"Fine." She hefted her things onto one shoulder and started along the road without another word.

Albel trailed some distance behind her as if to pretend it wasn't he who followed her. His eyes trained on her back, her feet, her light step; the dust that hardly billowed beneath her feet. He adjusted his own tread to surpass hers in silence and grace. He stalked her, body bent forward, boots padding without a sound.

"Funny, Albel. Now stop it before I make you march in front of me like a prisoner."

"I don't know what you're talking about, scum. Maybe you should have your ears fixed."

Nel sent an exasperated glare over her shoulder.

"You're such a child."

"And what do you know?"

"What do you mean by that?"

Albel smirked. "I've seen things with those maggots that would make your pathetic gods dust. Life's a joke and all things show it, Zelpher. Take it from me. I'm not the ignorant child here."

"Don't draw me into this, Albel. I have better things to worry about."

"Heh. Maybe if that maggot had invited you along you'd be thrown off your Aquarian high-horse by now."

Nel refused to acknowledge him any further, though her gait had stiffened since he had spoken. He snorted in satisfaction, but refrained from aggravating her anger. Not one ounce of him regretted antagonizing her; he had seen the looks she gave Leingod from time to time and they were nothing but fancy, an empty wish—pipe dreams, as the philosopher-merchant had called them. What made a seasoned killer like her feel anything for that young, foolish maggot was beyond him, but if Fayt was her hope, then Albel was the demon of regret that nipped at her ankles. Or so he liked to proclaim.

Pleased with himself, Albel loped along behind Nel with the air of a well-fed jackal. This annoyed her more than his stalking, for she tensed even more and the silence between them buzzed with her rage.

No monsters met them on the path; the heat had driven them into the shade of the forests. After several hours of wordless trekking, Aquios appeared over the horizon, the dark maw of the city gates stretching its white tongue of a bridge over the cliffs. The hair on Albel's neck rose at the sight of it.

"There's room for you in the barracks," Nel said to him as they drew closer to the city. "You'll have a room to yourself, but there will be recruits and subordinate officers nearby. Can you handle that?"

"Hmph. And where's this lycanthrope of yours being kept?"

"I'll show you when we get there."

She led him over the bridge and into the great mouth of the archway. Albel stepped tentatively across the threshold, sniffing at the air as if expecting to find something detestable about it. It smelled clean, fresh and holy, like the water that flowed from the Irisa river. A relief of Apris clutching his spear, beard and mane splayed wildly about his face like the rays of the sun, scrutinized him with divine severity from the inner wall of the archway. Albel bared his teeth at it, just as he had bared his teeth at the dying wolf.

He snapped to attention as Nel called his name and grudgingly trotted after her. The streets were quieter than usual. Perhaps it was a holy day and the subservient worms were at their chapel praying to that same leonine face. Damn all their pitiful souls to hell.

"Today is Sirvia's Day," Nel said, "Greeton has been making hostile gestures toward us as of late, so most of the town is praying for the soul of the blessed queen to give us strength."

"So the mutt's at the chapel?" Albel growled with distaste. "You'll never get me in there alive, scum. Try another day."

"No. It's too risky for us to let him near large groups. He has his own small shrine that the priests have set up in his cell."

"So you've caged him? How generous of you maggots."

"We didn't have a choice, Albel."

She took him down the road just past the barracks where the prison lay. The guards flanking the door pounded their fists to their chests in a salute. "Good afternoon, Lady Nel," they said in unison.

"At ease. We're here to see Conri." Nel said. Albel cracked a contemptuous smile at the sudden authoritative firmness in her voice.

"Yes ma'am!" One of the guards pulled open the door and Albel followed Nel inside.

They walked past several cells, most of them empty. A sole grizzled prisoner smirked up at Albel with glazed eyes from the dusty floor.

"They'll feed you to him, I'll bet...Those bastards chew out the heart first an' eat it while it's still pumping blood..."

The prisoner muttered something else, but it drowned in the sound of their boots against the stone.

At length they reached the end of the corridor. Nel slowed before they reached the last cell.

"He didn't have a name when he came here, but we call him Conri." She said in a low voice. "I know you're not one for politeness, Albel, but I don't recommend making him angry."

"What do you think I am? That cur's head will roll before he touches me."

"Just do as I say for once. Don't make me regret this, Nox." From the look she gave him, he could see that she already was.

"Bah."

Albel moved past her to look through the bars. The lycanthrope sat in the cell, reclined on a well-padded bed, a lit cigarette clenched between his sharp teeth. Ashes were scattered on the floor below him. A copy of the scriptures of Apris lay open in his lap from which he read vigorously, unkempt blond hair swaying as he turned a page. A small makeshift altar stood against the wall, statuettes of Apris and his lunar wives set beside lit candles. Plumes of incense mingled with the cigarette smoke in a pungent cloud that burned Albel's nostrils.

"Conri," Nel called, "I have someone for you to meet."

The lycanthrope jerked his head up. When he spotted Nel, he broke into a wide grin.

"Lady Nel! How've you been?"

He sprang off the bed and shambled to the bars as if unused to using only two legs. His amber eyes glistened, somehow reminding Albel of the man who had woken him that morning. He wore nothing but a pair of ash-stained slacks.

"Is Lady Clair with you?" he asked.

"No. She's still in Arias. There's a lot of cleaning up to be done."

"Oh." Conri's look of disappointment seemed an exaggerated version of human emotion-- an actor who didn't know the meaning of subtlety.

"Conri, this is Albel. He'll be staying here for a little while."

The lycanthrope squinted at Albel like an old man hard of sight. His nostrils flared as he took in his scent, and Albel shifted with an annoyed grunt. Conri's ears pricked at the sound.

"Well aren't we a ray of fucking sunshine," he said.

"What was that, mutt?" Albel shot him a snarl to match the yellow grin.

"You're a Glyphian, aren't you? Jayr says that all Glyphs are scumfucks only good for target practice. What's he doing here?"

He directed his last question at Nel, whose hands had begun inching toward the hilts of her daggers.

"He's an old comrade." she replied tentatively.

"If you'd seen the way our armies tore apart Arias, _scum_, you wouldn't be so quick to speak." Albel snapped.

"That sort of language isn't very pious of you either, Conri," Nel said, ignoring Albel. "I thought you'd learned better."

"It's easier when Lady Clair's around." Conri muttered, withdrawing slightly. "When did you say she would be back?"

"Not for a while."

He sighed, again with exaggerated emotion.

"I'll bring you more books when I can." Nel said sternly. "Have you already finished your prayers?"

Conri nodded.

"Good for you. I still need to visit the chapel myself. We'll leave you to your reading."

"Okay. G'bye Lady Nel." He shambled back to the bed, pausing to crush the smoking end of his cigarette against the floor and toss it into an tin cup.

"He likes to smoke; it makes him feel human," Nel explained to Albel as they left.

"The mutt wouldn't stop talking about that scum friend of yours," said Albel. "Maybe I should have told him how prepared I was to slice her in half on the battlefield."

"Clair has visited him a few times since he's arrived. He's very intelligent, but most of the scholars are afraid to come near him."

"Hmph. What exactly did he do to your soldiers, wench?"

Nel hesitated before answering. "He all but tore their throats out. Nobody knows what made him react that way; the man who would know is in too severe a condition to tell, and Conri doesn't remember a thing."

"You should kill him if you have any brains in that maggot skull. I'll even be willing to do it myself."

"No, Albel."

"I don't know why I bothered coming with you," he grumbled, "I'm running out of reasons to put up with this any longer."

"You haven't been to the barracks yet." Then she said, "I would like to thank you, Nox. You held your temper better than I expected back there."

Albel avoided looking at her; he didn't want to know if she was smiling at him. His monster growled with contempt behind his eyes.

"You'll be staying in the castle. I don't think you're caging me with half your army because you lack room."

"You know why. Don't make me explain it."

"Bah. You're worthless maggots, all of you."

Nel walked him to the barracks. The soldiers saluted Nel and eyed Albel with a mixture of curiosity and fear as she led him to his quarters. The room was small and sparsely furnished with a bed and a dresser the size of an end table. A wreath of Erinia adorned the wall, red yupa flowers intertwined like severed tongues in a grotesque ritual.

Albel forgot the moment when Nel left; she seemed to slip out with the breeze, her goodbyes falling on apathetic ears. He remained fixated on the wreath, his desire to tear the thing down and crush it with the hilt of the Scourge waning with each second. He soon turned away and shut the door to block out the stares the soldiers gave him as they passed.

It was still early in the evening, but the thought of walking in the streets under hundreds of wary Aquarian eyes kept him from venturing out. He thought of Nel and the lycanthrope and the carved face of Apris staring down at him—the shining eyes behind cracked spectacles staring down at him against the sun.

Albel let out a low snarl; teeth gnashing and spittle glistening in the rays of light that streamed through his window.

Closing Note: Conri/Clair = Do not want. The Bear-Jew is not amused. Thanks again to BlueTrillium for the lovely notes on the Aquarian pantheon. Though I mentioned that you don't need to have read Hesse's novel to understand the fic, there are several Easter eggs I have planted or plan to plant for those who have. Conri himself is one of them to an extent. I kinda flew through this chapter and did homework at the same time, so I hope I didn't do too crappy a job.


	4. Comfortably Numb

This one's gonna be really short, but I've tried to make it thematically rich. I hope it doesn't disappoint you too much.

"_Now with our Steppenwolf it was so that in his conscious life he lived now as a wolf, now as a man, as indeed the case is with all mixed beings. But when he was a wolf, the man in him lay in ambush, ever on the watch to interfere and condemn, while at those times that he was a man the wolf did just the same."_

_-_-Steppenwolf

"_Let be be the finale of seem._

_The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream."_

--_Wallace Stevens, "The Emperor of Ice-Cream"_

"_Sleep comes like a drug in God's country."_

_--U2, "In God's Country"_

Albel's worst nightmares were not always of his father. Sometimes there would only be shadows and sounds and muttering that oozed out of the dark and into his ears like bile into a cup. He never cried out for those; his throat would be dumb with cold which would seep down his spine and he would wake with a body like stone, except for his hands feebly twitching as if groping for help.

They happened most often when he was uncomfortable, which was why he soon found himself sitting up in his little room in Aquios's barracks, numb and gasping. The wreath of red tongue-flowers wagged in the breeze that drifted in from his open window. He stared at them as he regained himself, their vibrance piercing the darkness around him.

Shivering despite the heat and no longer feeling compelled to sleep, Albel rose from the bed and pulled on his clothes. He hated the room; it's smell and build, the feel of the threaded blankets, reeked of Aquarian make. In Airyglyph, the air smelled of smoke—dragon's fire—and snow, and the blankets were made of wool from the herds that grazed at the sloping feet of the mountains. He had to get out, even into the gleaming streets of the city he despised.

The night watch must be asleep by now; the front door was worth a try. Albel crept out into the hall, stalking across the old wooden floors as silently as he could muster. He felt his way to the latch and slid the bolt back with a soft, rusty squeal.

A thick yellow fog had settled over the city that lingered heavy over the purring river. In the moonlight, it glowed ominously, sending a thrill of excitement down Albel's legs. He had left the Crimson Scourge in his room, but his teeth, suddenly sharp, pressed into his stretched, sneering lips seemed like weapons enough. A wild ecstasy fired through his gut, and he raked his claw against the stones to hear their menacing ring.

He slunk through the alleys, dodging guards whether he needed to or not, until he stood beneath the castle entrance. For once, he would be the assassin, not Zelpher; would kill the soldiers and slit the Queen's throat while she slept with a laugh. If the scum faced him, he would kill her too, chuckling to himself all the while. Then he would tear his way into 4D space, take that blond maggot's neck in his claw and squeeze until the true god died between his metal fingers. God is dead and his creation has killed him! How shall he comfort himself, the murderer to end all murderers?

Laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh until the fog turned his eyes yellow.

But nothing happened. For now, he crouched in silence, smiling with the knowledge of his freedom. Unlike the Aquarian scum, or the maggots that infested the stars above him, he knew that he could do anything, kill anything, for he was freer than any comparison poets could conceive of.

But still he did nothing.

Albel wandered away from the castle, feeling the wildness drift away from him. Through the fog he could see the silhouette of a man leaning out one of the windows, sighing with loneliness.

A biting ache in his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten for a day; all thanks to the Aquarians who kept him holed in that damn room. He roamed about looking for a pub still open at the lowliest time of night, finally finding one in the seedier part of town where the drunks gave him unfocused glares from their slumped positions along the wall. Sawdust from the floor muffled his footsteps as he ventured inside.

The smoke in the pub stifled the air worse than the one from the day before. Albel worked his way to the bar with the sensation of acid spikes being driven into his nostrils, his hunger overcoming repulsion. He muttered an order of fish and wine to the bartender who drifted off in a cloud.

Albel looked to his right at the man sitting there, a barely conscious part of his mind expecting to see Zelpher in her beard again. A lithe creature, he perched rather than sat on the barstool, twin swords strapped to his back with a leather belt. His head bent forward like a crane's, he wore a troubled expression.

The plate of fish and flask of wine appeared. Albel ate in a fugue, concentrating on the wood beneath his elbows as the only solid object he could be sure of. The swirls of white that surrounded him made his hands fumble as he struggled to hold his fork. When he had gulped down the last of the fish, he took the flask and stumbled out into the alley, coughing faintly.

Aquios—city of ghosts. Woltar had said that once. When Albel was a child. But Albel Nox refused to believe in such things anymore.

Albel took a swig of wine and trudged up the street in the fog. The phrase rocked back and forth across his brain with the lilt of a nursery rhyme: Aquios—city of ghosts. He could feel the wine rush straight to his head and mingle with his tiredness. He threw a sycophantic smile at the three moons above him, the wildness returning to him.

"An fear mire!" he barked for no reason at all. It was on the top of his mind, and he threw it at Irisa and her sisters like a boy might throw a rock he found at his feet.

Then he staggered back to the barracks, yanking open the door, heedless of the noise he made. Those Aquarians—those Aquarians—who gave a damn? He was tired not drunk. Just tired.

He went to the small living space just beyond the entrance and fell into a chair which squealed against the floor. The smile had not yet left his face, and remained there long after he had fallen asleep.

Closing Notes: With Halloween coming up, I can echo some of Albel's sentiments; Fall fever, excessive horror movies, and heavy metal make me more violent-minded and bloodthirsty than usual. Zombies too. Lots and lots of zombies. With intestines dragging from their slitted bellies. Yessss... It may help you to understand the relevancy of the odd-sounding quote to say that "The Emperor of Ice-Cream" is thought to be about hedonism as the only certain good—or pleasure—in the world. It's a good poem if you care to look it up. /another shameless literary plug.


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